


Remember Me Tomorrow

by ch3rryvodk4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch3rryvodk4/pseuds/ch3rryvodk4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After eighteen months of living with the enigmatic and curious creature that is Sherlock Holmes, John Watson comes clean. The night that follows his somewhat fumbled confession is an unforgettable one.</p><p>And yet, John loses every moment of it to a car accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Better To Have Loved And Lost...

Eighteen months. A lot can happen in that time. It's plenty of time to have enough adventures for a lifetime, especially when with Sherlock Holmes. But eighteen months is also a time long enough to fall for someone, and fall hard.

It was the kind of love that takes you completely by surprise. Where all of a sudden you stare at them and realise how desperately you love them and your world shifts beneath your feet. It was the kind of love where you wonder how long you've been falling for them, or if it really just was all at once.

Whatever kind of love it is, John Watson is positively sick with it. And he isn't fond of having to keep secrets from his flatmate, especially ones that concern said flatmate.

London had been keeping safe lately, much to Sherlock's displeasure. They haven't had a case in over a week and Sherlock's been growing more and more restless every day.

"You're bored and I'm hungry. Let's have dinner," John announces one night, managing to keep his voice and posture indicative of more confidence and offhandedness than he truly possessed. Sherlock gives him a curious look, but obliges anyway.

"We'll leave at eight, then?" John nods in agreement and disappears into his room. He isn't particularly concerned about what he is going to wear, but sorting through his clothes gives him something to do other than fretting over dinner like a hen.

Eight o'clock finally rolls around, and John makes his way to the sitting room to wait for Sherlock. He wears a beige button-down, jeans, and a black jacket. Nothing fancy, or Sherlock would be suspicious. Sherlock can spot John-on-a-date in a second. Sherlock is present and hailing a cab for them in minutes. He tells the cabbie to take them to Angelo's, figuring that if he does end up eating, it might as well be somewhere the both of them will like.

The ride is brief but silent, though it's a comfortable silence. When they finally arrive, Angelo motions them in the direction of the table they'd shared the night they first met.

Sometime after they order, John decides it's time to come clean. Angelo had delivered a 'romantic' candle to their table and instead of being opposed to it, John launches into his brief speech as soon as they have privacy again.

"You told me, here, that you were married to your work," John begins, steeling himself. Sherlock narrows his eyes, not judgmental, purely curious. "And at some point between then and now I realised that, while I know your work is incredibly important to you, I want to be your first priority." He swallows and stares determinedly at the tablecloth, his brain screaming for him to run before the inevitable sting of rejection, before this night gets any more bloody awkward.

He's brought back to Sherlock when he feels someone holding his hand. Sherlock's tracing lines in his palm with his index finger, just barely ghosting over the skin. "I could tell you what each of these lines meant according to palm readers, fortune tellers, et cetera. I could read into the lengths of your fingers, the size of your knuckles, determine what planet you must have been born under simply by examining your hand. But you know very well I don't believe in any of that." Sherlock stares at John, making sure to achieve eye contact before adding softly, "Besides, I'd much rather do this, anyway." John opens his mouth to ask what 'this' is, but his mind short-circuits as his hand is brought to Sherlock's lips, and slow, light kisses are pressed into his palm. "Somewhere, amidst shooting cabbies and nearly being blown up, I think you made me do something no one has ever accomplished before -- you made me absolutely mad for you."

John nods dumbly, not fully processing the words. He's taken completely by surprise at the confessed reciprocation. His heart thumps not unpleasantly in his chest. He clears his throat as their food arrives, and digs into his tagliatelle bolognese to avoid any further conversation. Sherlock ordered a small bowl of ravioli which, surprisingly, he eats nearly all of before pushing the dish towards John. "You're still hungry." It's a statement, not a question. John had positively scarfed down his own meal and glanced around briefly before Sherlock spoke, and spoke correctly. He nods in thanks and finishes off the dish before speaking again.

"So what does this mean, then? For us? Is there even an 'us' for there to be discussion about?" He asks, eyes focused on Sherlock intently.

"If you're referring to a relationship," he begins smoothly, "I see no reason not to follow such a course of action. Each of us obviously finds the other attractive, physically and personality-wise. Personally, I don't understand how you tolerate me, but that's for you to know and me to constantly wonder. But yes, I would certainly have no objections to pursue a romantic relationship with you."

John nods again. "Right then. Relationship. Have you ever been in one, before?"

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. "Physical, yes. Emotional, no." It's simply stated, and there is absolutely zero sentiment attached to any memories he might still have involving the subject.

John finds himself feeling a painful ache in his heart at that, that Sherlock never really had anyone to truly love. But then, he supposes, it had never been something Sherlock had ever cared to pursue. Another ache, this one a slightly happier sort of pain. He is the first and possibly even the only one Sherlock will ever want, emotionally and romantically. John had broken down every wall that had ever closed Sherlock off from the world around him, and then rebuilt them with a small, John-sized door just for him.

Angelo, of course, refuses to let either of them pay and sends them off with a knowing smirk and a sly wink in John's direction.

The returning cab ride is much too long and far too quiet. There's electricity sparking from their fingertips, but neither one has the courage to make a move. And so they wait, in tension so thick, so tangible that it could have been cut by a knife, for the cabbie to finally pull up to 221B. Sherlock pays him disinterestedly and slides out of the vehicle, not bothering to wait for John as he hops up the stairs to the flat. He unlocks the door and sprints up the stairs, a habit that only seems to manifest itself when Sherlock is alight and excited with the promise of a case. John follows with trepidation, worrying that he's about to be dragged across London to chase a serial killer.

What really happens when John Watson climbs to the stairs to his flat is not at all what he expects.

He shuts the door behind him with a sigh, not sure if it is of relief or disappointment. He has no idea what to make of dinner, what their conversation means for the future. Is there going to be a future? Or will the words simply hang, suspended in time, in Angelo's at the table by the window?

His question is answered by a rather forceful but pleasant pressure against his lips. His breath is pushed from his lungs as his body is pressed up against the door. Soft lips collide with his own, and his mind whirls before realising what's happening.

Sherlock is kissing him.

Quite zealously, too. Long, slender fingers grip his hips, keeping him pinned against the door to their flat. When John comes to his senses, he wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm. He parts his lips fractionally, and Sherlock takes the hint without any further encouragement. He allows himself to be dominated, Sherlock's tongue eagerly exploring John's mouth, mapping every detail and storing it away in his mind. After what feels like an eternity, they pulled apart in the mutual need for oxygen. Sherlock's face is flushed, his lips kiss-swollen, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust.  John's sure that it must be a perfect mirror image of his own thoroughly snogged expression.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, their lips still only centimetres apart. "I would like very much to take you to bed."

John's mind flashes white and his head spins as he nods dumbly and lets Sherlock guide him to the bedroom.

\---------------------------------------

John wakes slowly, eyes bleary and head still a bit fuzzy. He rolls onto his side to look at the digital clock that flashes 6:07 AM at him, and he then realises that this is not his clock. He sits up abruptly and turns to see Sherlock, sleeping, his dark curls spilling onto the pillow beneath his head. On the one hand, Sherlock is sleeping for once. On the other hand, he has just slept with John.

John doesn't regret the previous night, just needs a moment to pull himself together, process what has just happened, the new spin that has just been placed on his life.

He slips out from under the sheets and quickly dresses. He tiptoes out and decides a ten minute walk is what he needs, then he'll come back and make breakfast, some coffee, and find out exactly where he stands with Sherlock.

The brisk morning air cools his skin, and aids in sorting things out in his head. His mind is, however, still foggy enough that he doesn't think to check for cars before he steps out into the street.

Even if he had checked, it still isn't clear he'd have seen the car that hit him.

\---------------------------------------

_'My name is John H. Watson. I know who I am, where I'm from, I remember my military service and medical training, yet the staff here tell me I have amnesia. I am able to describe to them in detail everything up to the moment my mind goes blank. I had been walking, when I encountered Mike Stamford. We got coffee, talked a bit, and he said he'd found someone who might be willing to share a flat with me. I assume we were on our way to such a person when I had my accident. I hope Stamford is alright._

_The doctors came in earlier, said I'd only been out several hours, asked me all the usual questions. Yes, I knew all about me, current affairs, etc. Yes, I was in a great deal of pain, mostly my head and ribs, though the steady morphine drip they've got me on makes it nearly unnoticeable. After speaking with several people who shoot me worried and concerned glances, as if they knew me, but are unfamiliar to me, they handed me an empty journal. Told me to write everything I knew. Hoped it would jostle something, but what? I have not forgotten anything. Maybe they hope to find out how this happened. I assume a car accident, though they may be thinking some sort of PTSD episode. I doubt it. In a short while, they'll be back. Perhaps with more people for me to talk to. We'll see.'_

John closes the small book and settles the pen beside it. His therapist would be thrilled that he was writing. He decides that if he feels charitable, he might write about his hospital stay in his empty blog. What an exciting first entry it would make. He chuckles bitterly.

A tall man sweeps into the room then, dark curls falling nearly to his shoulders. His eyes are steadfast, blue-silver, captivating. Those eyes fix intently on John, who feels a slight shiver down his spine at the eye contact. "John?" He asks, tentatively.

John looks up, determined to meet his gaze. "You don't look much like a psychiatrist," he comments. "Or like someone who belongs in a hospital at all."

It's hardly noticeable, but for a second, the man flinches. He manages a very tight-lipped smile after that, though. "No, I'd think not. I'm not in here terribly often. I prefer my time spent down in the morgue." There's some comment about how morbid that is on the tip of John's tongue, but he swallows it. No need to be rude to a stranger. "I take it you don't know who I am." He speaks calmly, his voice flat, dull. John shakes his head. "Of course not. Listen, I'm... I'm the man you were to meet, today. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Stamford had told me much about you. If you're still interested, we could look at the flat tomorrow, after you're discharged," he explains slowly. John nods agreeably, then holds out his hand. Sherlock shakes it, and there's a trace of pain that flashes momentarily across his features as he does so.

John smiles politely. "It's good to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."


	2. ...Than Never To Have Loved At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of Chapter 1 from Sherlock's p.o.v.

When Sherlock wakes, he finds the space next to him surprisingly empty, and the slight dip in the mattress formed by John's body is cold. His clock flashes 8:53 AM at him, and he curses himself for sleeping so late.

He stretches and carelessly drapes a navy blue dressing gown over his otherwise bare form. There is no smell of coffee or any other breakfast in the kitchen, and John's laptop is cool, hasn't been used yet that day. No sign of John in the flat.

 _I'm sure he just went for a walk,_ he thinks to himself. _John is rather fond of his little walks when he wants to think._

So he finds himself dressing in the usual; dark trousers, purple button up shirt (John's favourite, obviously), and his dark coat and navy scarf hangs up by the door, should he be going anywhere. He makes and drinks coffee, finding that his mind is still going at half speed. He can't suppress the nagging at the back of mind for long, and he pulls out his mobile, dialling John immediately.

It rings twice, and then someone answers. "Hello? This is St. Bart's Hospital, phone of John Watson."

Fear settles in. "Hospital?" He chokes out. "John's in a hospital? Is he alright?"

There's an unsettling pause. "Who is this?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"... One moment, please."

Sherlock can hear rustling as the phone is passed from one set of hands to another.

"Sherlock. Hi." Mike Stamford. Not surprising, he works at Bart's. Maybe John is busy? Called in for some emergency? Unlikely.

"Hello Mike. What's happened to John?" He tries, in vain, to keep the concern out of his voice. There are a million things that could be going wrong, and every one of them is worst-case scenario.

There's a deep breath at the other end of the conversation.  "John's had an accident."

Sherlock holds the mobile between his ear and shoulder as he abandons his coffee and makes for his coat, shrugging it on as he takes his mobile in his hand once again. "Tell. Me. What. Happened," he commands, already out of the flat and hailing a taxi. Every second that he doesn't know exactly what's going on is a second that is completely and utterly wasted.

"He was hit. We're thinking car, hit-and-run. The damage wasn't bad, we don't think it was an attack. The driver just panicked and fled, most likely. He's stable, and he'll be fine - physically."

For the first time since he's picked up the phone, Sherlock feels himself properly breathe. "Physically. What about mentally?"

"There was some damage," Mike begins slowly, "He can't remember anything-"

"Nothing?" Sherlock interrupts frantically.

"He can't remember anything about the last eighteen months or so. His last memory is of the day I introduced him to you. All his memories before that are fine, and he's completely aware, just... It's like the last year and a half never happened. Everything's gone, Sherlock. I heard he was asking one of the attendants for his cane." There's a sympathetic silence after that. "I think you should come down here. I'm sorry." Sherlock hears a click and the line goes dead.

He has, of course, already found a cab and instructed the driver to take him to Bart's. Eighteen months. Everything gone. The nights they'd spent together chasing, being chased, the night they'd spent together only hours ago. John won't even remember his face.

They arrive at the hospital and Sherlock quickly pays the cabbie before steeling himself to whatever he's about to find, as far as John is concerned. He knows that he's delusional for having some hope that he'll walk into the room and suddenly everything will be alright. 

_'Haha got you, Sherlock, I'm fine.'_

Not a chance.

He's met at the door by a puppy-eyed nurse, blue eyes watery with pity. "Your friend's upstairs, love," she says gently. Sherlock scoffs and brushes past her. He isn't a child who needs her misplaced sympathy.

He follows her directions and sees Mike Stamford talking to several doctors outside of what he assumes is John's room. Mike freezes up as he sees Sherlock approach. The other doctors turn to see what has happened.

One woman, late fifties, mousy brown hair streaked with silver, hard brown eyes that are fighting to stay emotionless, speaks first. "There's some bruising along his ribs, but we checked and there aren't any fractures. As far as any bodily harm, he was lucky. He'll have a sore side for a few weeks, but no lasting damage. As I'm sure Mr Stamford has already informed you, Dr Watson has lost several months worth of memories. There's nothing to suggest that this amnesia is permanent, but there's an equally minimal amount of evidence that it isn't. I would recommend leaving it alone for the time being. He'll stay here for several days, and when he's ready to be discharged, you can take him home, show him familiar places, items, people, try to jostle his memory. We'd like to see him twice a week for the next two months, to check on the condition of his brain and mental state. There haven't been any signs of swelling so far, but he could still develop something nasty if we don't pay close attention." Sherlock nods hastily, though he feels slightly numb. "We don't want to alarm him, so we feel that you should introduce yourself as if you were meeting for the first time."

There's a hand on his forearm. Mike. "You two'll get through this. You always do." His smile is, thankfully, solely one of support. He doesn't need anyone else to feel sorry for him. The small crowd moves out of the way of the entrance, and Sherlock enters warily.

John's room is bare and colourless. It doesn't suit him at all, to be somewhere so utterly dull. Sherlock manages a polite smile. "John?" He asks, feeling it's more to confirm that this is real than anything.

John looks up, and he _looks_ the same. But he isn't. Isn't the same John, isn't Sherlock's John. "You don't look much like a psychiatrist," he comments. "Or like someone who belongs in a hospital at all."

Sherlock feels his stomach lurch and he tries very hard to suppress a wince. He barely manages to not be too obvious about it. He forces a tight-lipped smile. "No, I'd think not. I'm not in here terribly often. I prefer to spend my time down in the morgue." He gives a slight shrug, hoping to remind John of _something._ "I take it you don't know who I am." He speaks calmly, his voice flat, dull, almost completely listless. He can't afford to let in any emotion or it'll all come rushing through. John shakes his head, dumbly. "Of course not. Listen, I'm... I'm the man you were to meet today. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Stamford has told me much about you. If you're still interested, we could look at the flat in a few days, after you're discharged," he explains. John nods, and he still seems... Out of it. John then holds out his hand politely to the stranger in front of him. Sherlock shakes it, and is sure he looks like he must be in agony.

John smiles kindly up at him. Sherlock has to keep himself from thinking about where that mouth had been last night. Fortunately, he doesn't shudder from the memory. "It's good to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock wonders offhandedly if the sound of his breaking heart was audible. "You as well, John Watson."


	3. Every Thrill Is Gone...

_'The last few days have been rather hectic. And I have to admit, I'm not really sure if I believe everything that's happened. Slowly, they explained to me some of what happened over the last eighteen months, and I find that I can't remember a thing._

_I've met Sherlock already, and I've apparently been living with him all this time. I take it our true first meeting went well, then. He's been rather kind to me, going slow with me, even when I obviously frustrated him. For the most part, he treats me as if we really are strangers, and I must admit that I appreciate that. It would be awkward, I think, if he were to treat me like a close friend so immediately. It would be normal for him, but definitely not me._

_All my things are already in the flat, so there's no unpacking to do. Regardless of the fact that I don't remember anything, the person who lived here was still me. Even my cane is in the closet, covered in a thin film of dust from disuse. Had I gotten better? Did I no longer need it? At any rate, everything else is where I like it, and I'm torn between relief that there's nothing for me to do and stressed that I have nothing to keep myself occupied._

_I've been offered a place at the surgery, or rather, re-offered my previous position. Sherlock claims to be a 'consulting detective' (the only one in the world, he tells me) and says that I often help him. He showed me my blog, all of the posts and cases that we've done together. He said he wasn't sure whether or not to keep the posts, but said he hoped it might help me recover. I admit, it's all completely overwhelming, and more than once I've caught myself wondering why I'm letting him tell me my life story, and believing every word of it. Maybe it's because of the blog, what's so obviously my writing, my thought process. But maybe because Sherlock is just incredible. I've already seen him work, seen his website. This man is a genius. I think I'll keep helping out where I can. Help maintain a sense of normality, I suppose._

_And I'll type these entries up, too, when I've got the time. I'll go ahead and put them onto the blog. Might as well keep it up. Normality. Routine. Right._

John cracks his knuckles and sets aside the journal he's been given. He contemplates unearthing his laptop and typing up his entries, but decides against it, at least for the moment. He rests his head back against the cushions of the sofa and closes his eyes. He's mildly surprised at himself when he doesn't jump at the sudden dip beside him. It's Sherlock, obviously. But it feels familiar, even if he has no memory of it. "Sherlock?" He murmurs. Sherlock hums in response. "We were friends, weren't we?" He hums again, a light 'Mmhmm,' and John nods. He sits up and faces Sherlock. "Is that all? Just friends?"

Sherlock's expression is unreadable. "Whatever we were before doesn't matter. We are what we are now." He speaks softly, calmly, and it's clear even to John that he's straining to keep his voice level.

John swallows thickly. "Yeah. You're right."

\---------------------------------------

"Whatever we were before doesn't matter," Sherlock barely holds back a pained expression, the word 'before' twisting like a knife in his gut. "We are what we are now." He thinks it's unfair, so very unfair that he not only remembers, but has memorised every moment of their life together. He tries not to think about it, but his brilliance is a problem in doing so. He could always delete it. Just wipe the hard drive, start over as fresh as John, but he _can't._ They're all stored in the file titled 'John', and no matter how much he wants to escape the urge to treat John like so much more than a new flatmate, he has to suppress it. He's a master of doing that, right? After years of being told he was an emotionless, unfeeling _machine,_ he's fairly certain that ignoring his feelings would be no great feat.

He hears John mumble a reply, but doesn't pay attention to the words, just the dull, vaguely disappointed sway of his voice. He stands immediately after, feeling like a coward, but desperate to flee all of the tension. He pulls his dressing gown tight around him and leaves the room, not failing to notice the frustrated scrub of John's hands up and down his face.

Sherlock clenches his teeth, and mutters a mental apology before retreating to his room.

\---------------------------------------

Sherlock contemplates his behaviour quietly. He hasn't been experimenting lately, and he even had the wall fixed before bringing John home from the hospital. Not that this really is home. Not yet. He feels like he's trying to be normal, or at least more so than usual, and it's all for John's sake. He couldn't bear it if he scared John away, if he managed to lose his second chance.

John shows no sign of remembering anything, not any actual memories, nothing physical. But it's almost immediate that he realises John had fallen back into much of the same routine as before. He is still slightly wary of Sherlock, though he seems to anticipate Sherlock's sarcasm, sulks, and screeching violin torture. No memories, but feelings, thoughts, lingering like ghosts, wisps of something from before.

Sherlock can't help but feel like all it'll ever be is just that. A shadow of what used to be.

Sherlock shakes his head clear. As of late, the route that his thoughts have taken have strayed vastly from what's logical. At the moment, the chances are high that John will remember something, be triggered and recollect his time spent here in 221B.

Yet he can't delete the flaw in his mental blueprint that prevents him from bring able to delete the worry that pricks at the edges of his mind.

\---------------------------------------  
 _'Sherlock says we were friends. He wouldn't say if that was it. I can't help but wonder if there's more to it than he's telling me. I'm not stupid; I read those entries I wrote myself. I'm not blind either. I can still see the way he looks at me, the agonised glances when I don't understand a reference he's made to a life that isn't mine, or the times when his deadpan expression softens into something warmer when I bring him tea or ask about his day. It's all rather domestic, to be honest, thought not entirely unpleasant._

_But I don't think I'd mind a bit of excitement.'_

John shuts his laptop and slides it onto the coffee table. He doesn't always post what he types, but he prefers the (somewhat false, he knows) sense of security he has by storing all of his thoughts on the machine rather than on paper. No matter what he writes, though, it won't matter. Not to Sherlock.

Because Sherlock can read him like a book. And Sherlock knows, he must know, that something in their world is shifting.


	4. ...Wasn't Too Much Fun At All

It's a little over a week into their new arrangement when Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade about a case. Sherlock prepares to leave immediately, simply expecting John to follow. 

Of course he doesn't; he doesn't even know what's just happened. All he's gathered is that Sherlock is very excited to go somewhere after getting a call from a person named Lestrade. 

Sherlock is about to bark out some snide remark about how devastatingly _slow_ John can be sometimes, when the realisation hits him like a tonne of bricks. He finds himself struggling to breathe because this is wrong, it's wrong, this is not right, it's _wrong._ Alarms go off in his head, echoing in his skull, because he has not planned for this. His plans were for weekend lie-ins after heated nights before, sleepy love-making before the world demanded their presence, and most of all, cases. John's adoring stare, streams of praise, and awed smiles that never seemed any duller despite the time that had passed. They were not for this. 

"John," he began slowly, "I've just got a call from Detective Inspector Lestrade. He says there's been a murder."  John cocks his head, obviously curious and waiting for Sherlock to continue. "I'll be going to the crime scene to look at the body." Then, a flicker of hope. Maybe if he tries doing something familiar, John will remember it. "You were an army doctor," he states. "Were you any good?" John shrugs and replies, "Good enough."

"And I suppose you've seen a lot."

John nods, disinterested. "Enough for a lifetime." 

Sherlock asks, "Would you like to see some more?" But John's reply is only, "Sure." Sherlock feels himself deflate. He knows he shouldn't have expected anything. Should have snuffed out that flicker before he could act on it. 

"Right. Come on, then." He nods curtly and spins on his heel, making a beeline for the door. John follows this time, but it's not the same. 

\---------------------------------------

It takes exactly six minutes and thirty-seven seconds for Sherlock to determine that the jealous ex-lover of the victim's boyfriend is to blame, and it's obvious. Hot pink nail lacquer found in several cuts across the arms matched the ex's, long blonde hairs clutched stiffly between the fingers were the same bleached blonde, and the painfully obvious motives made it a simple case. Boring, but at least it's something. John shakes his head and mutters something like 'Incredible,' under his breath when he thinks Sherlock can't hear him. As long as maybe they're getting closer to some semblance of normality, Sherlock is content. 

\---------------------------------------

_'Today was something new. I got to witness Sherlock's brilliance firsthand. I suppose really I've seen him deduce dozens of times before, but I can't remember a single one. When we got home, I asked him if he deduced anything about me when we met. He told me everything; Afghanistan, the limp, even that Harry was an alcoholic who's wife had left them (I'm told he believed Harry to be my brother, though)._

_I can understand why so many people hate him. He's cocky and confident and obnoxious, and most times when he speaks all I hear is 'Punch me,' but that's just how he is. You have to look past the complete lack of understanding for social niceties to see the brilliance. He really does care about some people._

_It's easy to see that he does love Mrs Hudson. He may disregard her most of the time, but if anyone else does a single thing to her, God have mercy. I'm sure Lestrade owes at least some small portion of his career to Sherlock's genius and favour towards him as well. Perhaps I'm just romanticising the little things, but maybe I'm not. Sherlock is disinterested and disconnected with much of the world, but when he allows himself to love, he does it fiercely. It's almost frightening, the protective, nearly possessive way he expresses his devotion._

_And what about me? Am I another cherished acquaintance? He said we were just friends, and that before didn't matter, but I can't shake the feeling that that means there was something more. Was there? It's making me crazy, just thinking about it. All in due time, I suppose.'_

John clicks the small box labelled 'Disable Comments' before hitting the 'Post' button on his blog. He doesn't want some stranger approaching him, telling him all about his life before. Or worse, some stranger making things up about his life before. He isn't even able to discern fact from fiction at this point. 

He closes out of his web page and opens the private text document he keeps his more personal musings stored. 

_'Much of me - no, all of me - is highly anxious. There's a part of me that is so desperate for more, more than what we have now, possibly more than what we had even before, but another part screaming 'Danger!' at me. Which part do I listen to?_

_Trying to re-build a broken life without a foundation is beyond difficult; it's damn near impossible. Sherlock makes it even harder. He wants me from before back so desperately, and he's begun to treat me as if I'm some completely separate entity, and only a mediocre replacement, an inadequate substitute, a temporary stand-in until his John comes back. It's infuriating. I don't know if I can take any of this much longer._

_I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be John-before or John-after. I want to be John-with-all-of-his-memories. Is that so much to ask?_

_I'm starting to think so.'_

\---------------------------------------

Several days later, John overhears his name in a conversation between Sherlock and some unknown other-party on the opposite end of the cell phone. "...No he doesn't. John is fine in that respect, I _assure_ you. It's just - yes. Yes, I know... Alright. I'll speak with him- Right. Of course. Good-bye." There's a click, and John rests his weight against his cane, face scrunched up suspiciously. 

"What was that, then?" He asks dubiously. He knows he shouldn't doubt Sherlock, but he can't help the dark feeling that pools in his stomach. 

Sherlock speaks slowly, as if John is some young child who doesn't understand the situation he's in. "John, I just spoke with a woman from the hospital, you might remember her. She's the one who looked at your head. She's recommended several different therapists who specialise in helping recovering amnesiacs like you. We aren't sure how much you can remember, but we'll do all we can to-"

John holds up a hand to silence him. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but what the hell? You spoke to a doctor about my condition, about _me,_ without even bloody consulting me first? Some consulting detective you are," he bites angrily. 

Sherlock stands gaping before him. "John, I'm just trying to help-"

"Help? Help _who,_ Sherlock?" John shouts, at the end of his rope. He knows Sherlock doesn't understand how social norms apply to this - or any - situation, but this really is pushing it. Sherlock has been pushing it for a while now. 

"I'm trying to fix this," Sherlock murmurs. 

"'Fix this'? You think that I'm just something to be fixed? My life isn't something you can fucking fix with the contents of your bloody chemistry set!"

Sherlock's heart gives a painful wrench at those words. "John, please calm down. You don't understand..."

"Understand what, Sherlock? That I'm not bloody good enough for you? No, I think I understand that just fine."

Sherlock frowns, and John has to force down the sympathy that threatens to surface at Sherlock's kicked puppy look. Sherlock moves towards John, and extends a hand to cup John's cheek, but hesitates, hovering inches away from John's face. He lets the hands drop and his eyes search John for some piece of the John he remembers. After an eternity of seconds, he opens his mouth. No words come. He clears his throat and tries again, but even then his voice is small and rough. He sounds so sad, forlorn, and there's a hollowness to his tone that nearly falters John's furious resolve. 

"I just want my John back."

"Your John?" John's voice rises shrilly, but he doesn't care. _"Your_ John?" Sherlock's eyes snap up as he realises his mistake, but it's too late. John is moving quickly towards Sherlock, before either of them can stop him. Sherlock doesn't have time to realise what's happening, and all too suddenly John's palm smacks harshly across the side of Sherlock's face.


	5. Something's Missing In Me...

There's a resounding _'smack'_ throughout the flat as John's open palm meets its mark. John's hand stings from the impact, and Sherlock's face is rapidly turning bright red, a faint outline of a hand becoming apparent on his cheek. He stumbles backward, his own hand reaching up to feel the mark. He winces as his fingers brush over the tender skin. He staggers and then the backs of his legs his the sofa, and he lets himself fall.

John can only see red, and the furious haze hasn't quite faded yet. He rounds on Sherlock, stepping forward and leaning down to grip his collar. His fingernails scrape painfully against the pale flesh of Sherlock's neck before he's shaken roughly.

Through gritted teeth, John growls, "Don't you ever fucking say that to me again. Do you know why? I'm sure it's oh so fucking hard for you to understand, but that right there was a bloody insult. I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you, and god it must be dull to have to start from scratch, but you do _not_ get to go around referring to my life as something that belongs to you, and making me out now to be so bloody pathetic. If I'm not good enough for you, fine. But I won't stay around to suffer through your endless verbal abuse. I'm sick of it, and I'm willing to bet you I was pretty fucking sick of it before, too. I'm surprised I stayed as long as I did."

His breathing is laboured and uneven, the anger controlling his lungs. Sherlock is dumbstruck. He can't bring himself to speak, and is left sprawled across the couch, his mouth hanging open in a small 'o' as John spins hard on his heel and thunders out of their flat.

It's not until after John has left 221B that Sherlock finds his voice. "I'm so sorry."

\-----------------------------

_'When I finally came home, Sherlock was gone. There was a note on the kitchen counter, saying he'd be back later, that he was getting milk. We have plenty of bleeding milk, why does he feel the need to go get more? I understood he'd be difficult to live with, but I had no idea how ridiculous this would all be. Getting more fucking milk, my arse. I hope he doesn't bloody well come back.'_

\-----------------------------

Sherlock wanders the street of London, feeling vaguely numb, save for the tingling sensation in his cheek. John has been angry with him before, impossibly frustrated with him, yes, but John has never hit him before. There's a part of him tells him that John just needs his space, needs a little time, like always, but there's another part that blames the entire debacle on Sherlock. He's been pushing it this whole time, too eager to get the John he remembers back and disregard this episode that he's been neglecting everything he should be doing. He's slowly realising how he's mucked everything up with his best friend.

Sighing, Sherlock decides that John deserves a little more time apart from him than usual. He'll make an attempt at an apology tomorrow. For tonight, he'll just have to occupy himself. He spots a pub and grits his teeth. This is how most people, John included, relax themselves. Maybe he hasn't given alcohol a proper chance. He approaches the pub warily, not feeling particularly enthused about the experiment. 

He finds a secluded booth and orders a drink, not even paying attention to the words that tumble from his mouth. When it arrives, he tells the girl who serves him to start a tab. He downs his first quickly, then orders a second, and a third. He starts to feel dizzy, but doesn't particularly care. Anything he felt starts to ebb away. His inhibitions and cares lower as his blood alcohol levels rise. He's legally intoxicated within the hour, and has no plans to stop. He starts to take in his surroundings as best he can. The pub is alive with men and women, some mingling, others talking, most everyone is drinking. 

It disgusts him, that average people can live their average lives, with such average experiences and none of them can experience what he feels, what he sees, none of them will ever know what it feels like to observe the world around them, but he does. And it feels all too amplified to him. His desperation, the lust for something to calm him, occupy him, and still his fevered mind. And he feels, too, despite all denial he does feel, and it's like a flaw, he's a machine but he's dripping battery acid, emotion, so unnecessary yet so undeniably needed.

He finally gets sick of reading every patron like an open book and pays the bartender, half-stumbling out. He vaguely processes someone asking to make sure he isn't planning on driving, but he waves his hand and mumbles something that he later thinks was meant to be 'Walking.' 

He finds a hotel and checks in for the night. He showers, washing the stench of alcohol away and brushing his teeth clean of the sordid experience. Finally, sometime shortly after three, a drunken haze lulls his mind to sleep, naked amongst clean, lavender-smelling sheets.

\-----------------------------

_'John. I'm sorry.' -SH_

Eleven o'clock. Sherlock wakes with a thunderous headache and doesn't bother ordering up coffee. He re-dresses himself and texts John. He has to go back to Baker Street and apologise. Maybe hungover isn't the best time to do it, but at least when he feels this miserable and pathetic he won't accidentally say something offensive or snarky. He flags down a cab fairly quickly and tells him the address. When the radio is turned on he winces, but pushes through. If he's going to go home to a volatile and upset John, he's going to need to be at least a little used to all the loud noises.

He arrives to a much calmer John than he left. He's drinking tea and watching telly, but makes no move to offer Sherlock any sort of acknowledgement. For all he cares, Sherlock doesn't exist. Sherlock merely nods stiffly and goes to his room. He spends his time there driving himself mad, trying to think of a way to get John to forgive him, but comes up with nothing. He finally gives up and selects some humdrum textbook on genetics, having decided that time is what will remedy the tear in their friendship.

\-----------------------------

_'Sherlock came home this morning, and much as I hate to admit it, I want to forgive the bastard. He was so obviously hungover and I can't help but wonder what happened to him last night, if anything. I'm almost worried about him. I'll leave him some pills and a glass of water once he passes out, but only because he doesn't deserve the pain he's bound to be in. I'm angry, but I'm not heartless._

_I've had some time to think about last night, though. He's hurting. I know he had something with the me he knew previously. I can't imagine what it's like to fall for someone so completely and then lose them. I can't help but wonder if he wishes that I died. At least his last memories would have been of me telling him I loved him, kissing him, knowing him, anything but the abuse I'm forcing him through._

_On the other hand, maybe he's trying to re-program me. He's an impatient man. It wouldn't surprise me if the reason he's so... Aggressive about my recovery is because he just doesn't want to wait. He's been so isolated his whole life, of course he has no idea what's socially acceptable versus not. Perhaps I should try to help. Talk to him. Let him know that while it must be hell to wait, that's all we can do._

_I'm pathetic. I can go from ranting about how much I hate him to realising I'm falling for him in no less than three paragraphs - a new record, I'm sure. But the fact of the matter is, he loved me. Some version of me, at least. And God help me, I'm desperate to be that John that he's so madly in love with._

_It's show time.'_

 

John shuts his laptop and makes his way to Sherlock's room, knocking softly before he pushes the door open. He sighs, seeing Sherlock curled up on himself on the bed. Instead of leaving, he climbs into bed with his flatmate, covering them both with the duvet before draping an arm over Sherlock's waist. It may only be one in the afternoon, but John's past caring. He just wants things to be okay for once.


	6. ...I Found It Deep Within Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry about the delay!  
> I've been packing and moving and flying across countries and oceans and dealing with jetlag and bad wifi connections and throwing up for days on end, and I promise I'm going to (try to) post regularly again, but I'm still in the middle of all this madness, so please bear with me; I'm by no means going to abandon this fic, but it might be a little touch-and-go for a while :/

Sherlock's head still aches terribly when he wakes, and he groans softly, putting a hand to his throbbing head. He begins to turn over to get out of bed when he realises he is not alone in the bed. John is still fast asleep, curled against where Sherlock's back had been. He notes, after some time, that he is now covered with his sheets, something that he was not when he had fallen asleep. He feels himself relax as he stays largely still, but moves marginally closer to John. He chances a hand through the dusty grey-blond hair, relishing the silky feeling against his fingers. 

This is how their first morning after should have gone. John should have waited, or woken Sherlock up, at least. They should have wasted the morning peppering kisses into the other's skin like promises, their bodies wrapped round each other, indistinguishable from the other and too in love to care. John made him feel human, and reminded him that he truly was. The adrenaline, the cocaine, the crime-solving, all of it was nothing compared to the high that the man beside him gave him. Or was that a lie? Were they truly the same man? They never would be exactly the same - each John was experiencing things differently. He hated this. He didn't hate John, but he hated what John was going through. 

He can't help but put an arm around John's waist, and stays close, letting himself drift back into slumber to the warmth of John's soft breaths against Sherlock's forehead. Even if he wakes to John's screams, at least he'll have this. Just one more blissful moment where he can pretend that everything is okay before his happy reality is ripped from him again, leaving his chest feeling hollow, that dull ache spreading through his body. Of course, even a moment is too much to ask for. Sherlock has never known John to be a light sleeper, and today will only serve to prove that. Even the subtlest movements that Sherlock can muster to do not go unnoticed by a slowly waking John. He blinks several times, slowly awakening and taking in his surroundings, including his body in relativity to Sherlock's. 

For the briefest of moments, something flashes through John's eyes. There's recognition in that look, and a warm fondness that only the John Sherlock remembers would have given him when he was being especially clever or worthy of John's endless love. It's the look Sherlock imagined he'd have woken up to the morning of John's accident, the morning after he'd proven to John just how loved and treasured he was. John was _adored_ by the detective. But as quickly as it appears, the warmth vanishes, and it becomes a softer, less intense expression of anger, simmering to confusion, and finally a resigned frustration. 

"Sherlock," he begins slowly, his voice groggy from sleep, but still carrying a warning tone. "what are you doing?" Sherlock knows he's talking about the position he's put them in, their bodies pressed together. Sherlock can't claim it's for body heat - the flat is warm already. In the end, Sherlock just tells the truth.

"I miss you," he confesses, and presses his nose into the crook of John's shoulder. "Whatever you remember, I don't care. I want you, John. And if I build us back up from scratch, I will. I just can't lose you, not like this." His voice is small, unbearably small, and John's heart leaps into his throat in sympathy. "What I did earlier was… It was a bit not good." He gives a weak smile and nearly winces when John shows no sign of recognition at that. "Please let me try this again. I want to get it right." He lets out a shuddering sigh and presses his face against John's shoulder, unable to face him any longer.

Thoughts whir through John's head at lightning speed. There it is. That confession that what they had was so much more than flat mates, and more still than even the closest of friends. But more than that, there's the concession too. He's accepted that John's memories are gone, but nevertheless he wants to try again. John feels a pang of jealousy for his previous self for having had this man by his side, willing to do anything in demonstration of his quiet but fierce and fathomless devotion. John has no doubt this man would jump from a building if it would save the ones he loves from any sort of danger. 

"Sherlock," John starts, cupping the detective's face and lifting him up. "I need you to promise me something."

Sherlock nods eagerly, all wide-eyes and messy curls spilling over that perfect face. The soft pink tip of his tongue darts out to wet his perfect cupid's bow of a mouth in tense anticipation. "Anything," he swears solemnly.

"This," John gestures wildly at himself, "is me. I'm not _your_ John, but I still am John Watson. There was something about me that made you fall for me, and if it's still there, then I'm certain that the love I once felt for you is as well. I want that. I want to see you happy, because when you are, everything seems easier, lighter, better. But I don't have the memories your lover did. I'm still new, and I might never be him. Be patient with me. Go slowly. And above all, don't make me into him." John's eyes are hard, leaving no room for argument or objection. 

Sherlock nods stiffly. "John, I… Listen, if you're willing to do this.. Could we- I mean, could I take you out somewhere? A proper date. If you really are open to the idea, I want to do this right. Court you, woo you, that sort of thing. Would that be okay?"

John laughs. "You don't have to court me, Sherlock. It's the 21st century, and I don't have any dowry to offer you either. At most, maybe half a century. I could give it all to you, but I need you to give me the same dedication. I want to try, okay?" He gives his best attempt at a reassuring smile, and adds, "Tomorrow night. Let's do something fun."

Before Sherlock can agree, he coughs. In only seconds he's doubled over, coughs violently wracking his body. John swears under his breath and is out of bed immediately, only to return some moments later with pills and a glass of water. "Take this," he instructs, handing Sherlock the medication, holding Sherlock as he takes it without argument. He gets a cold compress for Sherlock's forehead and mothers him, doctor instincts taking over. Neither speak; this is not John Watson, friend and hopefully lover, this is Doctor Watson, here to cure sickness quickly and efficiently. 

Sherlock is confined to the bed, and John plays nursemaid, catering to Sherlock's needs, most of which remain unspoken. John knows the man will never ask for help, especially in this state, which only serves to make the process all the more difficult. When Sherlock finally submits to John's prodding, the doctor is able to determine that Sherlock has 'gone and caught himself the bloody flu' despite attempts to have Sherlock get his shots. The detective had merely scoffed when earlier that year, John had tried to drag him to the clinic. Sure, John does not remember the incident now, but has no trouble supplying himself with a similar story, knowing Sherlock well enough already to know he would never willingly allow himself to be vaccinated against such 'ordinary' diseases. 

So John pushes aside any and all relationship thoughts concerning his flatmate, who has been given the title 'Patient' and nothing more until he is better. When Sherlock finally succumbs to sleep, John decides a blog entry is in order.

_'Sherlock got sick, the bastard. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he did it to himself, just for the attention. But he's bloody miserable, so even if it was intentional, he's suffering more than gaining from it. I must have some sort of sodding caretaker complex, infatuated with the weak and helpless who are turned from men of ice and stone to panting, over-heated children, all jockeying for my attention. It's that or I'm completely mad. I agreed to go out with him, to give him a chance at whatever it was we had, before. Sherlock has little sanity left to speak of, but I must have none, willingly agreeing to let him bleeding woo me. At least I'm not going round the bend alone. I'm dragging him with me into the madhouse, I swear.'_


	7. It Was Always You, Falling For Me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the long wait, and I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's stayed with me through the update! I moved twice and was all over and out of the country, not to mention getting all sorts of registration ridiculousness done, but hopefully with things a little calmer now, I can update more frequently.  
> Enjoy reading and, as always, leave me a comment below or message me at sp00kyv0dka on tumblr for any questions about any of my works. Once again, thank you!

_'He doesn't think he is, but Sherlock's a complete romantic, if not a bit untraditional, when he wants to be. It took nearly a week of babying him to clear him for actually interacting with the rest of the outside world, but we did it. Once he could speak without coughing, though, we talked. Just talked, not about relationships or people or anything, just life. He told me what little of his childhood there was to speak of, and I mine. He talked about his cases, and with such incredible enthusiasm. This is a man who is devoted entirely to what he loves, whether it be chemistry, cocaine or cases. Sherlock Holmes is a truly fascinating man, I am forced to admit. But I am not without merits myself. I've done well enough with myself to have my own share of stories to spin and tales to tell, so he had better understand that I'm pretty damn important, too._

_We went out to dinner, at someplace called Angelo's. Angelo recognised us both immediately, gave us the best table and a nice candle too. I asked Sherlock and he explained the casework he'd done for the man, leading to free dinner whenever he was over. He mentioned briefly that we'd come here before, but I'm grateful that he said nothing past that. It's nice to know that this is a familiar place - I rather like it - but I don't want to know all the details of before, when I was different. Just knowing that I was here at all is enough. Maybe that will change soon, but for now that is all._

_The date went wonderfully. The conversation was light, fun, the food was excellent and we walked most of the way back to Baker Street; it was a lovely night, not one to be spent entirely within the confines of a cab, of course. Besides, when someone as athletic as Sherlock is with an ex-soldier, there's more than enough endurance and stamina between the two of us to walk a few miles before it gets to be late. He was still looking a bit pale, so I had imposed a curfew. It was surprising how compliant he was, so it's probably for the best. As soon as he gets better, he'll be defiant once more._

_We got home an hour or so ago. Sherlock is asleep beside me as I write this. I've agreed to share a bed so long as he makes no advances. I admit it's nice having someone beside me, as well as the lack of pressure to have sex when I'm as tired as stressed as I am already. He does rather a lot of things that I appreciate greatly. I can't help but wonder if he was this considerate for past me as well. I certainly know he never is to anyone else._

_We talked for a bit before he fell asleep. I like our current arrangement, but both of us agree that my having my memories back would be a nice thing. He won't tell me about them, won't try to make me like he remembers, but has talked me into seeing someone about memory recall. We're to try some 'home remedies' tomorrow, but nothing much, just triggers to remember places, people, events, phrases, that sort of thing. We'll call in the morning to make an appointment. I hope all goes well. I'm feeling good about this.'_

As the days pass, little good happens. John gets upset frequently and Sherlock pushes him too hard too often. They never fight like they did when John ended up hitting his friend, but there are screaming matches and careless insults thrown back and forth all the same.

But the fighting isn't all that happens. Sometimes, Sherlock will tell John about a time he remembers, mostly from his own childhood, occasionally from time he spent with 'Other' John, and he's so gentle with the recollection of the memory, treating it as such a delicate thing. He lies on the couch with John curled up in his armchair, tapping away at the keys on his laptop, half-asleep by the end thanks to the lull of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock finally teaches him how to type properly, tired of the ceaseless 'Tap… Tap… Tap…' at the keyboard. John bickers and snaps, but by the end of it, he is boastful of the slightly more rapid 'Tap-tap-tap' his fingers are capable of producing. Sherlock beams with pride at the small accomplishment, and life is good.

"Doctor Hartnell," Sherlock announces one day, earing a confused glance from John. "Neurologist, and his partner is a speech therapist. I contacted them with your case and explained the situation. I've yet to hear back from them, but of their critics I've heard only the best. If he calls back and accepts you, will you go?" Sherlock is nervous, something John isn't used to, which only goes to show to what lengths Sherlock Holmes' self-confidence and arrogance is extended. So much so that a man who has known him for but a handful of weeks, several months now, can be taken aback at the tone of caution and worry in his voice.

He is sure to smile when he replies, eager to soothe the dread that he can tell Sherlock is feeling. "Of course. I hate being pushed, you know better than anyone, but I want to try. And I might be willing to try just a bit harder with a bona fide doctor rather than my loony flatmate - no offense." He holds his hands up passively, ready to defend himself should the detective be triggered by the statement.

All is calm, as Sherlock readily accepts the statement. As a doctor himself, it only makes sense that John feel a bit more secure in the slightly more capable hands of a doctor whose hands also contain several degrees in the specialised fields that will assist him in assisting John. "Good. Well, I'm going to pop out for a bit; Lestrade wants my advice for a case. Shouldn't be more than an hour or two. You stay here, it couldn't possibly be more than a four, but I'm bored and a bit sick of being cooped up all day. A walk and some light thinking will do me good." He prepares to leave, adding before he disappears out into London, "And John, we seem to be out of milk. Fetch some while I'm out, would you? Thank you!" He calls out the last phrase from the street, his gloved hand waving, either to John or a cabbie or perhaps to serve both purposes. John sighs and digs out Sherlock's card. He wonders absently if there will ever be a day when Sherlock does the shopping himself.

 

He thinks not.


	8. ...Now There's Always Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, the titles are mostly song lyrics I thought fit the chapters  
> Also, back to regular updates! Woo-hoo~

_'We went out again last night. Sherlock took me to the cinema, it was lovely. I even managed to keep him from telling the entire theatre what the ending was. He still told me, though. I suppose it didn't matter, as I seemed a bit more preoccupied with his showing off to me than what was happening on-screen. He deduced nearly everyone in the audience, including myself. He said I was in love, though gave no explanations for that one. I know he was cheating with that. He said that it was someone frustrating, going by the wrinkles in my brow and the tension I carried in my back. I asked him why I'd put up with such a git, to which he merely smirked and said that 'my lover' must be quite handsome and 'skilled', as with every mention of such a man, my pupils dilated and heart rate increased rapidly. He wouldn't believe me when I said that was only because of a dark theatre and a suspenseful car chase. He leaned in and whispered that there was nothing suspenseful about it. I missed the rest of the film._

_He's right, of course, about loving him, although I'm not even sure he was sincere in saying such a thing to me. He knows how to get under my skin, but I know how to get under his, too, but that just proves I pay far too much attention to have learned so much in such a small space of time. He is an astounding creature, Sherlock Holmes. I can't seem to help myself where he's concerned. My memories may be gone, but… It's like the feelings are still there. The emotional responses to certain triggers are still active and very much functioning. He'll say or do something and suddenly I'll cascade through happiness or misery or anger and when Sherlock sees it, he's so indescribably_ elated.

_I won't lie about it, I feel sorry for myself. There are times when I feel pity and sorrow and anger and frustration. There are times when I want to scream and others when I want to cry. It's not worth denying. I lost over a year of my life - and some of the very best times I've ever had, according to nearly everyone I'd known - to blackness and it feels more and more every day like I'll never get it back and I hate it. So there's me feeling upset and mad at the world for the way I am. But it's Sherlock I feel worse for. If what I've heard is true of him, he was a sociopath. Uncaring, unfeeling, cold, distant, angry at the world around him for not being as clever as he was. And after so many years of being alone, outcast, he found someone who put up with his shit, who saw past his being a prick, his 'alone protects me' cover and managed to even love him. What was it like, to finally have such a meaningful, requited love? What must it have felt like, to lose it all to some stranger in the skin of your once-lover?_

_I think I understand him better the more I live with him and rebuild our lives. I can't say that I agree with some of the things he's said and done, but I can see why he did it and I can understand why and I can forgive him for doing so much of what he has to me because he was upset and in denial and blamed the man who took the place of his beloved for his loss. I can't say I would have reacted much better. I know what my life was like. I have no delusions about the state of my life up to meeting Sherlock._

_But we have each other now, don't we? Maybe we can work it out, maybe even work better. Perhaps now, with all the cards on the table, we'll be able to move alone just a bit faster.'_

John sighs and shuts his laptop after saving the text he's just written. Much of it, he knows, will not make it to his blog, but remain locked away in a password-protected text file. He'll edit out what seems most important and put that out in the open, for his therapist to see he's doing fine, to show all who read his blog that Doctor John Watson is back, and will still be much of the same person they have all come to recognise. What's nice, though, about the bits that he hides away, is that Sherlock won't look. He could certainly get into the file no problem, but he understands that 'Password please.' is a not-so-subtle way of John asking for just that much privacy. Sherlock, who is still earning John's full and complete trust, respects this. Not to mention Ella was right about one thing; writing about everything that happens to him does make him feel a bit better.

Sherlock walks in, and the glorious scent of curry and yogurt sauce wafts in alongside him. They've not had Indian for a while. John feels his mouth water, glands already eager to digest. His stomach rumbles in famished agreement that eating commence. "How are you feeling?" Sherlock asks, making his way for the kitchen counter, which he's continued to keep clean enough to eat on. Paper plates and plastic utensils are procured from thin air and various lamb and chicken dishes are laid out over the table. A stack of napkins rest in the midst of it all, awaiting the spill of hot tikka masala sauce. John licks his lips and joins Sherlock in the kitchen.

"Hungry," he replies, looking over the spread. "And all of this smells lovely, Sher, thank you." He smiles and helps himself to rice, naan, and a scoop of lamb vindaloo. He's been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to have eaten more than tea and beans on toast for breakfast nearly twelve hours ago. Sherlock brightens immediately at the smile, and John can feel irrational happiness radiating from them both. He wonders if this is what he was like with Sherlock before the incident, but tries to make himself not care. He and Sherlock are here, together, now, and things are starting to fall into place, quite happily. 

Dinner passes peacefully and is uneventful. So, as they're clearing away plates and storing leftovers in the food-designated area of the fridge, John pipes up. "What's wrong? You seemed happy and all, but not speaking during a meal? No objections, no complaints, no boasting about how clever you were today when you solved a case before the client even knew they were in need of help? Talk to me."

Sherlock goes rigid. "Remember our talking about the doctor? It was nearly three weeks ago, now." John nods, recollecting their agreement. "This afternoon I received a call form Doctor Hartnell's office. He's free to see you tomorrow afternoon, if you can go. The woman he works with, Doctor Hill, said she isn't available, but if all goes well with Hartnell, you'll return to see them both at some point anyway. What do you think?" He chews nervously on his lower lip, eyes searching John's face for anger, frustration, refusal, _something_ that could tell him he's done something wrong.

No such indication ever crosses John's features. He merely nods slowly. Sherlock's been wondering about his reaction to being asked to go to therapy, and from past experience, is afraid that John will be upset about it. It was, admittedly, still a bit of a touchy subject after all of the arguments they'd had, but John understands that this is best for all of them. There's a possibility he'll get parts of his mind back, Sherlock will have not only his John, but maybe even this new John, with a whole new outlook and whole different way of wanting to love him. A win-win, perhaps. "Okay," he says, relaxing his shoulders and takes Sherlock's hand in his, trying to provide solace. "One appointment, we'll see how it goes. I wouldn't be mad at you for this, stupid," he chides playfully. "We agreed on this. I'm not going to back out now, don't worry. I know you want me to remember. Perhaps," he muses, "perhaps I'll remember you tomorrow."

Sherlock's features soften and he squeezes John's hand in return. "I must confess, I certainly hope so." 

John leans up and kisses Sherlock's cheek before pulling away. "I'm going to shower and get to sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

Sherlock watches John go, and his face falls. "Please," he murmurs, more to himself, or perhaps to some miscellaneous deity that he has no real faith in. "Remember me tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two are a common saying, 'Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'  
> The second two are from 'As The World Falls Down' by David Bowie from Labyrinth  
> The third set are from 'Missing' by Flyleaf  
> The fourth set are from 'Always' by Panic! at the Disco
> 
> All songs are personal favourites, so definitely check them out if you'd like! :)


	9. Here, At The End of All Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't an update so much as a tying of ends, for which I apologize. I abandoned this story while I was hospitalized and I've been in and out of psych wards and programs and trying different cocktails of pills to try and achieve some kind of balance, but it was too much on its own, so I think that properly finishing this as it deserves won't happen, for which you have my deepest and sincerest apologies. It's been so many years that I don't think I could finish this if I tried (so sorry). So here, have a summary of the end, I guess.  
> 

John and Sherlock attend therapy for days. The doctors say that it's promising, that John has a real shot of recovering himself. They keep coming back as the weeks go on. John joins Sherlock on more cases, with more excitement. Their touches linger more and the atmosphere between them lightens. John is less angry, and Sherlock provokes him less. The only time Sherlock can truly distinguish between 'old' John and 'new' John are times when he references old cases, or John catches someone staring at him with too much pity for too long, and goes off. He goes silent for days at a time when reminded how so many people see him. 

They try different kinds of therapies, they see different doctors, but the more they go, the more John realizes the fruitlessness of it all, though Sherlock initially refuses to give up hope. John tells him he's not going anymore. They fight long into the morning that night and John disappears the next day. Sherlock worries. John returns, unharmed. Their life is balanced precariously, John a powder keg about to explode, too easily set off by any harsh reminder that he has no say over a year and a half -- the best year and a half -- of his life. 

A year goes by. One morning, Sherlock wakes and realizes that they've existed in this delicate reality for nearly as long as he had lived in his careful, carefree life with John before the accident. This is what his life is now. He confronts John. Says he doesn't care about John remembering anything, that the memories that are most important are the ones that they will make on their own time, together, without dozens of watchful eyes tracking their every thought,t heir every reaction. The world settles. John laughs more, Sherlock relaxes. This John knows him just as well as the one before him did, if not better. Now it is this man that Sherlock would trade for nothing, not even what he had before. He has struggled through love once before, he will gladly do it again.

And so they fall into a comfortable routine, presumably with a satisfactory amount of pain and love overcoming all that all involved are quite content and believe their overarching drama to have been resolved quite satisfactorily. That being said, their will never not be conflict where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are concerned, but from here on out, they will face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry I couldn't give you the ending you deserved :(
> 
> **side note: I'm getting really into Hamilton lately, so if you like the musical, stay tuned! I have some equally heart-breaking hurt/comfort loveliness in the works (plus with now several years additional writing experience)

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would like it, my tumblr is sp00kyv0dka  
> :)


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